Stolen by the Cursed Duke (Stolen by the Duke #3)

Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

“ Y our Grace, will you be dining with His Grace tonight?” Mrs. Manning asked, standing at the edge of the room with an air of practiced deference.

The dining room at Thornvale was warm and inviting with the scent of roasted pheasant and fresh bread wafting from the kitchens. The long table was set with meticulous care—gleaming silverware, crystal glasses, and pristine white linens.

It was the kind of opulence Charlotte had expected from Thornvale, yet she couldn’t shake the emptiness of sitting there alone.

Charlotte glanced at her plate, the single place setting standing as a Magnus’ absence. Again.

“I suppose not,” she said coolly though her voice carried a tinge of bitterness she hadn’t intended.

The housekeeper hesitated, her hands folded neatly. “Perhaps he’s been delayed with work, Your Grace. I’ll see if there’s any news.”

Charlotte nodded though she doubted there was any delay beyond his deliberate avoidance of her. Ever since their marriage, Magnus had been little more than a shadow, and the rare glimpses she did catch of him—like their charged encounter in the hallway that had replayed in her mind ever since—did little to soothe the growing tension in her chest.

She’d never truly had any expectations of a happy marriage—not with anyone, truth be told—but she had at least expected something.

Meanwhile, downstairs in the bustling household quarters, the staff huddled in quiet conspiracy.

“It’s not right,” one of the maids whispered, leaning over the kitchen table. “A newlywed couple, and they’ve barely exchanged a word.”

“I am with Agnes,” another said, her voice low but determined. “They’re both miserable, and you can see it plain as day.”

“His Grace is a private man,” Mrs. Manning interjected though her stern tone lacked conviction. She adjusted her shawl, her eyes betraying her thoughts. “But even I’ll admit, it’s not what I expected after a wedding.”

“What if we…” Agnes hesitated, glancing around as if the walls might listen. “What if we arranged for them to cross paths more often? Just gave them a nudge in the right direction.”

Mrs. Manning folded her arms, considering the idea. “Discretion is key,” she finally said. “But perhaps it wouldn’t hurt.”

The first attempt came at dinner the following evening. Charlotte had barely seated herself when the doors opened, and Magnus strode in. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and there was an edge to his movements that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Your Grace,” Charlotte said, startled by his arrival.

Magnus gave her a curt nod, taking the seat at the opposite end of the table. “Lady Charlotte. I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”

“You weren’t?” she asked, surprised.

He threw her a wry look. “No. Mrs. Manning was under the impression that you had retired early. I suppose you gave her that idea, did you?”

“I did no such thing!” Charlotte cried, indignant that he thought she would manipulate such a situation. He didn’t answer, instead merely looking at her doubtfully.

The silence that followed was stifling. Charlotte focused on the soup before her, the sound of her spoon against the bowl deafening in the vast dining room. She cast a sidelong glance at Magnus, who was methodically slicing his meat, his face impassive, his knife scraping across the plate.

“Lovely weather today,” she ventured, her voice tinged with sarcasm. It was, in fact, raining heavily.

Magnus looked up briefly, his emerald eyes locking onto hers. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Of course, you hadn’t,” she muttered under her breath, earning her a twitch of his brow.

Later that week, the staff orchestrated another opportunity, this time arranging for Magnus and Charlotte to cross paths during the morning. Charlotte was reading in the library when Magnus walked in, clearly unaware of her presence. He froze for a fraction of a second before nodding in acknowledgment.

“I’ll leave you to your reading,” he said, turning to leave.

Charlotte stood abruptly, her frustration bubbling over. “Why do you bother pretending, Your Grace? You clearly have no interest in even attempting civility.”

Magnus turned back, his expression as sharp as his tone, and Charlotte almost took a step back. She held her ground. “Civility is hardly the issue here, Charlotte,” he retorted. “I believe we both understand the situation perfectly well.”

“Oh, do we?” she said, closing the book with a snap. “Because it feels like you have already decided I am some scheming interloper without a shred of evidence to support it.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he gave her a long, unreadable look before striding out of the room, leaving Charlotte to simmer in her anger.

By the end of the week, the staff was desperate. They arranged for both Magnus and Charlotte to be in the garden at the same time, feigning ignorance when Charlotte raised a brow at the coincidence.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” she said icily, her hands clasped tightly around her parasol. Even she had begun to suspect, especially with the continual glances that the housekeeper shot her, her looks silently urging.

Magnus inclined his head, his gaze sweeping over her for a brief moment before he returned to inspecting the flowerbeds. She felt naked beneath his gaze, as brief as it was, as if he were inspecting parts of her. “Duchess.”

The air between them was thick with unspoken tension, their every interaction a battle of wills. Charlotte watched as he turned away from her, his head held high. Her body tingled with the desire to approach him, the need to feel his body against hers again. But she didn’t dare, part of her frightened that he would turn her away. And part of her was frightened of what would happen if he didn’t.

“It’s like trying to mix oil and water,” Agnes muttered as the staff watched from afar.

Mrs. Manning, however, remained resolute, a sly smile on her face. “Give it time. Even oil and water can find a way to coexist—if you shake them hard enough.”

The following day, Charlotte decided to visit the village after a morning filled with thinly veiled attempts by the staff to orchestrate encounters between her and Magnus. Whether it was a coincidental seating arrangement at dinner or subtly arranging their paths to cross in the hallways, the staff’s efforts had become increasingly obvious. The sheer absurdity of it all had left her restless and desperate for a reprieve, and a visit to the village seemed like the perfect excuse to escape the castle’s stifling atmosphere.

She descended from the carriage with the assistance of a footman, her curiosity and trepidation mingling. It was her first outing alone since arriving at Thornvale, and while she was eager to escape the confines of the castle, she couldn’t deny the nervous flutter in her stomach.

“Your Grace,” said her maid, stepping down behind her, “shall I stay close?”

Charlotte offered her a small smile. “Yes, thank you, Jane.”

As they walked into the village square, heads turned. A few villagers paused in their activities, their expressions ranging from surprise to delight as they recognized their new duchess. Whispers spread quickly, and Charlotte’s cheeks burned under the weight of so many eyes.

A baker, his apron dusted with flour, stepped forward with a broad smile. “Your Grace, welcome to Thornvale. It’s an honor to see you here. We’re so pleased to see His Grace finally wed.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte replied, her voice steady though she felt acutely out of place. “It’s a beautiful village.”

The baker beamed, his pride evident. “We’re fortunate, indeed. Would Your Grace care for some fresh bread? Straight from the oven, just this morning.”

Charlotte hesitated but nodded. “That would be lovely.”

The baker darted into his shop, returning moments later with a warm loaf wrapped in cloth. “No charge, of course,” he said, pressing it into her hands.

Charlotte opened her mouth to protest but saw the eager light in his eyes and wished for anything but to dim it. “Thank you,” she said warmly, clutching the bread. “You’re very kind.”

As she moved on, other villagers approached—some to introduce themselves, others to offer small tokens: a sprig of lavender, a basket of apples, a hand-knitted scarf. Each gesture, however modest, carried an unmistakable sincerity that made her heart ache with gratitude.

“They’re truly welcoming,” Charlotte murmured to Jane, who nodded in agreement.

“They’ve not had much reason to celebrate in years, Your Grace,” Agnes said quietly. “The Duke’s father… well, he wasn’t like His Grace.”

Charlotte’s steps slowed. “What do you mean? Is it the…” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “… curse?”

Jane hesitated, glancing at a passing villager before lowering her voice. “The old duke was a cruel man. Harsh with the tenants, even crueler to the staff. But His Grace is nothing like that. He’s strict, yes, but fair. The people respect him for it. And now that you have arrived, they are hopeful for even better times.”

The words lingered with Charlotte as they continued through the square. In every interaction, the villagers spoke of Magnus not with fear or disdain but with an underlying respect. She wondered if she had misunderstood him entirely.

One elderly woman, sitting on a bench and knitting, waved her over.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice warm but quavering with age, “it’s good to have a duchess again. We weren’t sure it would ever happen, but we’ve heard you are kind, and I think that’s just what Thornvale needs.”

Charlotte sat beside her, intrigued. “What do you mean?”

The woman paused, her knitting needles stilling in her hands. “The Duke’s had a hard life. His father—” She pursed her lips, her expression darkening. “He wasn’t a good man. And that curse nonsense… well, it’s just talk, but I think it weighs on him all the same, especially after the duel that killed his father. A man can only bear so much before it changes him. But he’s got you now, and that’s wonderful.”

Charlotte nodded slowly, her gaze drifting to the distant hills. She had seen glimpses of that weight in Magnus, in his rare moments of vulnerability, but she hadn’t truly considered the depth of it.

“Do you believe in the curse?” she asked softly. In truth, she didn’t know much about it other than it was supposedly there. She’d heard people say that the Duke and his family had been cursed to live unhappy lives and that the Duke would never find a woman who loved him as a result. She supposed that now he had been forced to marry her, he never would.

Unless he allows me in as I wish to be.

The woman chuckled. “Of course not. It’s just an old wives’ tales. But when people talk long enough, they start to believe their own nonsense. Don’t let it trouble you, Your Grace.”

As they returned to the carriage, Charlotte reflected on the villagers’ words. Magnus was a man burdened by more than just responsibility. He carried the shadow of his father’s cruelty and the whispers of a curse that followed him wherever he went. For the first time, she wondered if his coldness wasn’t a shield but a wound.

It was late afternoon by the time Charlotte returned to the estate. The carriage wheels crunched against the gravel as it pulled to a stop, and she stepped out, her mind still turning over the conversations with the villagers. Her thoughts lingered on their warmth and on what she’d learned about Magnus—a man respected but also burdened.

The quiet of the castle greeted her as she walked through its vast halls, her footfalls echoing against the stone. Seeking a moment of solitude, she made her way to the library, a room she’d come to cherish for its quietude, but as she opened the door, she froze.

Magnus was there, standing by the grand windows with a book in hand. The light caught on his profile, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, softened only by the faintest hint of weariness in his expression. He turned at the sound of her entrance, his eyes locking onto hers.

“Lady Charlotte,” he said, closing the book with deliberate calm. His voice, though steady, carried an undertone that made her chest tighten. “I didn’t realize you had returned.”

“I didn’t realize I needed to announce it,” she replied, her tone sharper than intended though she didn’t look away.

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips before vanishing, and Charlotte had a flash of the way they had talked to one another when they had first met—with a passion and energy that seemed to have disappeared.

“I trust your excursion was enlightening?” he asked.

Charlotte stepped further into the room, clutching her gloves in one hand. “It was,” she said, disguising her surprise at his friendly tone. “The villagers are kind. Very generous with their time and thoughts.”

He raised a brow, his posture more open than usual. “I hope they didn’t bore you with superstitions and idle gossip.”

“They did mention a certain Duke of Thornvale,” she said lightly, watching for his reaction. “Strict but fair. Better than his father, they said. And, of course, the infamous curse came up.”

His jaw tightened ever so slightly, but he said nothing.

“They seem to hold you in high regard, Your Grace.” She tilted her head, her amber eyes sparking with a mix of curiosity and challenge. “I look forward to seeing this side of you they speak of so fondly, for it is clear to me that I am yet to see it.”

For a moment, Magnus said nothing. Then, to her surprise, a smile curved his lips—not the sharp, sardonic smile she was used to, but something quieter, gentler. “Perhaps they see a version of me that no longer exists,” he murmured, almost to himself.

The admission caught her off guard. There was no jest in his tone, only a flicker of vulnerability that left her momentarily speechless. “Or perhaps you simply keep it locked away,” she said softly, her voice devoid of the sarcasm she had intended.

His gaze met hers again, and for the first time, she thought she saw something unguarded in his eyes. It was fleeting, gone before she could be certain it was even there. He took a step closer, the tension between them thickening with every moment of silence.

“Why are you here, Charlotte?” he asked, his voice low. It wasn’t the question she expected, and it sent a shiver down her spine.

“In Thornvale?” she asked. “Because I am your wife now, even if it is in name only as you so often like to remind me. Or do you mean here in the library?”

His lips twitched at her retort, but his eyes didn’t waver from hers. “Both.”

“Perhaps I am here because I am tired of running away,” she said, surprising even herself with her honesty. “I am tired of the tension between us.”

“And yet, you’re so quick to fight against me,” he replied, taking another step closer, his presence now almost overwhelming. “Perhaps you’re not the only one running, Charlotte.”

The air between them seemed to hum with energy, their unspoken thoughts crackling like lightning. She could feel the heat of him, the tension that pulled her closer even as her mind screamed at her to step back.

“You make it very difficult to understand you, Your Grace,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” he murmured, his gaze dropping briefly to her lips before flicking back to her eyes. “Some things are better left misunderstood.”

For one aching moment, neither of them moved. The distance between them was negligible, their breaths mingling in the stillness. Charlotte’s heart raced, her body aching with an inexplicable pull toward him.

But then Magnus stepped back, his expression shuttering once more. “I trust you’ll find the library to your liking,” he said, his tone cool again. “Good evening, Lady Charlotte.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving her alone in the quiet yet again, her heart pounding and her mind spinning with unanswered questions.